


woven in my soul

by intothenowhere (orphan_account)



Series: Snapshots of a Sunrise [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Fake Character Death, Flash Forward, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-07 22:25:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19094290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/intothenowhere
Summary: War is life for the Coral Squad; friendship is love for Jedi Knight Volya Doneeta; loss is universal for everyone.What happens when a tragedy so great happens that it tears apart a group? What happens when the war is over?A story of war, loss, friendship, and hope told in three parts.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, I just get hit with the absolute need to write angst. And today was one of those times. 
> 
> As my friends may know, after a lot of different ideas for how Volya's final months with the Order would've gone, I finally landed on her getting injured in an accident and returning to the Temple to work in the Archives.
> 
> On a whim, I wanted to write that scene, to make it a little more real that the fragments I had in my head. What happened was that, like they so often do, the story got away from me. So now, this is a story to be told in three parts: a he said, she said, she said. I wanted to explore what happens not just to Volya, but to the Coral Squad as well (the Coruscant Guards that accompanied her). 
> 
> This fic does come with some trigger warnings: death (on-screen and off) as well as referenced/implied suicide of another character. Precede with caution, please. All mistakes are my own, feel free to hex me in the comments. Credit where credit is due:
> 
> General Misi & the 439th belong to mandowo, Brider Surris belongs to stxrduste, and the title of this fic is from Imagine Dragons’ song “Demons.”
> 
> All previously referenced scenes are from in-universe RPs or campaigns.

Flashes, that's how the scene processes for Rescue as Cinders knocks the door down with a hardy kick. Ronhar's precious stained-glass windows shattered, their frames bent and jagged. The force of the high Coruscanti winds blowing through what's left of the Chief of the Republic Diplomatic Corps’ office. A pile of —

 

“Got em!” Rescue yells at his brothers, surging forward, glass shards crunching under his boots. The world is a blur, unimportant, as all he allows himself to focus on is the _job._ He kneels down beside the pair of bodies, his heart seizing as he realizes the top form is Volya.

 

" _E chu ta_!" Cinders swears behind him, her brown eyes sweeping over Volya as Rescue carefully rolls her onto her back. He doesn't admonish her for the horrible curse, can't find his voice to.

 

Rescue fumbles for his medscanner without looking — he's running on pure instinct, his body knowing what to do while his mind races with a panic he can't process. He vaguely recalls, somewhere from the depths of his consciousness, of Volya's lifesigns slowly but surely deteriorating before him, Brider beside him as they — as they —

 

“Has anyone found Eights?" Cinders asks, not budging from her place behind Rescue. Her expression is as fragile as a thermal detonator in the nanosecond before it goes off.

 

Eights. _Fuck._ Rescue had been so concerned for Volya he'd barely stopped to consider his own Captain, who had been in the room the time of the explosion —

 

“I got him!" shouts Impulse, and the sound of her batch brother's voice seems to shake Cinders from her daze, because she's moving toward wherever Impulse and Aftermath are in the office.

 

Rescue doesn't budge from Volya, as he surveys the external damage: her left lekku is burned to hell, an ugly shade of purple blooming across it from the burns; a jagged gash runs down her cheek, and the lower half of her body is covered with shards of glass.

 

 _Fuck fuck fuck fuck_ —

 

A howl erupts from the corner of the room, made of pure agony. Rescue shuts down, locking away any emotion in a tight box and hurls it away because the key to his job was professional detachment —

 

The med scanner beeps. Her life signs are slowing down. He hasn't even checked Ronhar. Sirens wroop in the distance as the police and hopefully ambulances make their way to the building.

 

It's funny, Rescue thinks numbly as his siblings all start yelling behind him, and Volya's lifesigns slow to a crawl, it was an explosion in Coruscant that brought them all together. Now it's the thing that tears them apart.

 

                                     ★ ★ ★

 

Ronhar is taken to a civilian hospital.

 

Volya is airlifted to the Temple.

 

Cinders is given Eights's dog tags. None of them is sure what to do with ‘em — a brief discussion of tossing them into one of the lower levels’ fountains  erupts between the remaining members of Coral Squad, but it's quickly dismissed as too impersonal. Aftermath suggests placing them in the Room of a Thousand Fountains that Volya always spoke so highly of. They're not allowed access to the Temple, so that's shot down too.

 

They're each removed from active duty in the diplomatic sub-set of the Coruscant Guard. Aftermath and Cinders were enlisted to serve under Commander Thorn; Impulse was sent back to Kamino after a breakdown following Eights’ death. Rescue joined an S&R company; part of him even considered contacting Volya's friend, General Misi, to request a spot in the 439th, but he sincerely doubted the General would take kindly to the man that had failed to protect his friend.

 

Or at least that was the bullshit excuse Rescue liked to believe, despite knowing how false it was. Deep down, he knew it was just an excuse to avoid the memory of his failures; to be on that ship would mean recalling all of the stories Volya had fondly told him, before the war had touched her. Before death had come so close to taking her along with Eights.

 

Cinders had given him Eights' dog tags before they parted. Rescue wore them around his neck, sometimes used the metal objects to ground himself after losing a patient. He also figured, if worse came to worse, when he died whoever was left could honor Eights in some way he and the Coral Squad couldn't think of.

 

He hadn't heard from any of them — or Volya — in the last six months, but he knew most of them were alive. It was what kept him going: he could _feel_ them, the way they seemed to burst with the energy of being alive.

 

He knew they were alive just as he knew Impulse was dead. Rescue had known when he woke up with a gasp late one night, chest heaving because he felt a part of himself _gone_ in a single blaster bolt. When his commanding officer pulled him into her office the next morning, Shaak Ti's dignified and solemn figure staring down at him with eyes that shone even through the hologram, Rescue knew he'd been right.

 

Dead in his dormitories. Gone.

 

His dog tags thrown into the ocean by — by someone. Rescue wonders if anyone knew Impulse well enough to give him a proper funeral. Doubtful.

 

★ ★ ★

 

The war goes on.

 

The other members of his squad prefer the term "life," when they describe the continuous momentum of time. _Life goes on,_ a badly wounded soldier will declare with a wolfish smile, _the clankers never knew what hit ‘em._

 

Rescue knew his own truth: life was war for everyone, but war was _life_ for him and his brothers. Volya may have campaigned constantly for the rights of ‘troopers, but he couldn't envision a life for himself that didn't include the skull rattling sound of explosions, or white armor covered in grime and blood and scorch marks.

 

Sometimes, late at night desperate for sleep, Rescue would allow himself to entertain the idea of a galaxy of peace, where instead of healing battle wounds, he was a doctor at a civilian hospital, helping heal younglings with broken bones or colds.

 

That dream always faded by sunrise, and war began again.

 

★ ★ ★

 

The war is over.

 

That's what his squad keeps repeating and he doesn't believe it, can't believe it with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and his hands trembling as a medic who isn't him tries to patch up the holes in his body.

 

Dooku is dead, Grevious is on the run.

 

The war is over.

 

Rescue repeats it to himself, over and over again till it starts to sound like a children's rhyme. _The war is over, little soldier man. Lay your guns down, and rest your heavy soul. The war is over, the war is over._

 

The medic swears as Rescue's eyes begin to flutter; he hears his own heart rate, dimly thinks _that's not good._

 

Too close to that grenade; dumb, dumb, dumb. Eights would've scolded him for being so reckless. Or maybe he wouldn't have, after all, Rescue had been trying to help an injured soldier pull back before the battle caught up with them.

 

The shiny never stood a chance. Rescue couldn't save them, couldn't save _himself._ Death had finally reached out a spindly hand and got purchase.

 

The medic was frantically speaking now — younger fella, not used to combat. Might've never lost a patient before. _Sorry to be your first,_ Rescue wants to say, but gets distracted by two figures behind the medic. They're smiling a little sadly, like they hadn't expected to see him so soon.

 

The faintest smile passes over Rescue's face.

 

_Lay your guns down and come home, brave little soldier._

 

Rescue reaches a trembling hand, and grasps Eights’ ungloved one. The medic starts moving toward their tools and kits as the room fills with the screech of a flatline.

 

For a moment, as Impulse pulls him into a swift and familiar hug, Rescue swears he can hear Volya's voice, just behind him, but he can't make out what she's saying, the noise is so _muffled_ — thinks he might even hear Cinders.

 

The flatline continues despite the medic's best efforts.

 

_Run home little soldier: the war is over._

 

The war is over for Rescue at least.

 


	2. ii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cinders journeys through the end of the Clone Wars, and makes a life for herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same trigger warnings as before, lads. We're following the same beats from three different perspectives so it'll be the same for the third and last chapter too. 
> 
> All characters belong to me beside Thorn and Shaak Ti.

All Cinders remembers is  _ after.  _ After the ambulances and the police arrived, after Impulse had dropped to his knees sobbing hysterically for their fallen commanding officer. Rescue reaching out for an unconscious Volya as they took her away on a stretcher, to airlift her to the Temple.

 

Somehow, Cinders had a feeling it would be the last time she'd see them all together in one place, so she committed everything to detail. The emotion in Rescue's molten eyes as he watched Volya; the burns that marred Volya's short, chubby lekku; Aftermath trying to console Impulse with no idea how. The way Eights’ chest  _ didn't  _ move up and down.

 

She remembers the strong footfalls of a Coruscant Guard team moving swiftly into the room, marching in unison, flanked by Commander Thorn. Remembers the not quite grief in his eyes as he spots Eights, a somber resignation.  _ Another brother lost,  _ he seemed to think as he bent down beside Eights.

 

The dog tags were given to her. She doesn't know why, but Thorn takes her dust covered hand and places them gingerly in her palm, then closes her fist over it, as if to say  _ take care of his memory, I trust you to do that.  _

 

★ ★ ★

 

Shellshocked. Her family — what's left of them, anyway — is shell shocked as they're ushered into Thorn's makeshift office. Each of them are removed from diplomatic duty (they no longer have a Jedi to escort), and reassigned.

 

They spend their last days discussing what to do with Eights' tags, but every suggestion seems too small. Impulse doesn't speak, which worries her. If anyone on this Squad was ever semi-verbal, it was  _ maybe  _ Eights or Volya. Impulse  _ never  _ shut up.

 

Cinders use to think his incessant talking was annoying, now she wouldn't give anything to hear it again. For a shred of normalcy. 

 

Impulse goes back to Kamino; Aftermath stays with her in the Guard, but is assigned to another squad than her. Rescue signs up to join a S&R company, and she's the only one to see him off. The only left still planetside, who isn't busy with work.

 

"So, I guess this is it." Cinders comments, kicking at a bottle. She feels so  _ big  _ compared to the other shinies that mill about the shipyard. A mass of muscle that did jackshit to stop her commanding officer from dying.

 

"Yes," Rescue agrees. She thinks he might be trying to do his best approximation of a reassuring smile but he only manages to look constipated. "Yes, it is."

 

No platitudes, no  _ we'll see each other again.  _ He knows better than that.

 

(Cinders has already checked the casualty reports on the Jedi he'll be serving under, and doesn't like his odds. Not the worst number in the galaxy, but not the best.)

 

"Hail and farewell, brother." Cinders tells him, pulling him into a tight, quick hug. When he tugs himself away, she spares a second to unclasp the second pair of ‘tags around her neck, and holds them out for him. "I think Eights would want you to have these."

 

Rescue stares at the ‘tags for a prolonged moment, before taking them with utmost care. His voice is jagged when he mumbles  _ thanks.  _

 

And then he's another shadow in the crowd lost in the sunset. Cinders stays until the cruiser lifts up and shoots skywards, and she whispers one last farewell:  _ nayc mourners, nayc o'yaridir. _

 

★ ★ ★

 

Life goes on. Even after Thorn wakes her late one night to answer a hologram from Shaak Ti. Cinders doesn't cry. She  _ wants  _ to cry but can't will the tears, can't find a release for the hole in her chest where Impulse  _ should  _ be.

 

So, she walks. She walks through sunny streets, and wanders down darkened alleys. Some levels she recognizes the names of, others she does not. More often than not, Cinders feels like a ghost wandering through a graveyard, staring longingly at the people whose lives have been untouched by war.

 

Sometimes, she'll stop just outside the Jedi Temple and wonder if Volya knows about Impulse, if anyone contacted her.

 

_ Probably _ , Cinders thinks. But a part of her can't help but wonder.

  
  


★ ★ ★

Cinders dies on the eve word of Fives' execution spreads through the ‘79s; it's been months since her squadron died. Aftermath's been MIA for nine day cycles now. Somehow, the death of Fives' gives her the resolve her teammates could not.

 

It was an idea, creeping at the back of her mind for awhile, but finally she'd been spurred into action. It didn't take much to disappear afterward — she swiped some old clothes off a laundry line and hauled ass to the nearest train. Moved further down the levels, past the ones she use to visit with Volya and the squad. It would do her no good if anyone recognized her. 

 

Kirana Durron was born; a dock worker from Corellia who was injured in an accident and lost her arm.

 

It was  _ easy  _ being Kirana, as easy as breathing. She did repair jobs here and there when people would pay her, and sleep in alleys that she deemed safe enough. Soup kitchens fed her well in between credits. It was a hard knock life, but there weren't any clankers shooting at her, or any explosions, and that was fine by her.

 

★ ★ ★

 

It was six months in as Kirana that she met Jysella; Cinders was wandering the streets when she noticed the rundown tattoo parlor. Or perhaps more specifically, she noticed a short  Togruta hauling a guy out by his hoodie, a beautiful Mirialan in red robes behind him. 

 

“Come back when you learn some fucking  _ manners _ ," shouted the Mirialan, shaking her head. The Togruta chuckled in response, and started to respond to her when he noticed Cinders across the way. His eyes narrowed, then he motioned at the retreating man.

 

"Don't worry, he was just being a jackass about the ‘troops. We don't bite, s'long as you're not a dipshit." 

 

Cinders remained where she was standing, "How'd you pick him up, you're awfully short." The way she emphasizes the word leaves no question that she truly means scrawny.

 

The Miralan laughed, a noise that seemed to  _ sing  _ with promise and for a moment, Cinders thought the artificial stars above them seemed to shine a little brighter. "Aries spent most of his adolescence in gangs."

 

"Correction: I spent most of my adolescence  _ avoiding  _ gangs." The Togruta named Aries said, motioning with his hands for emphasis. "Gangs see a Togruta and all they see is muscle, even if you're only 5'2." 

 

"He packed on some muscle helping me move boxes," a new voice says, and a short Lannik appears between the two. "I'm Ziv, by the way. The short brute you've been talking to is Aries, and the goddess behind me is Jysella. You wanna come inside? You look a little worse for wear."

 

The small trio of Ziv’s Inkshop refused to take no for an answer, and within the next few hours, Cinders had been properly fed, clothed, and given a job opportunity after shyly admitting some of her tattoos she'd designed and done herself.

 

"We could always use a second pair of hands," Ziv told her, mouth full of a fruit snack. "Or in this case, fourth."

 

Cinders accepted. 

 

★ ★ ★

 

The war has been over a long time for Cinders; her days are spent in bed in the artificial sun snuggling with her girlfriend, Jysella. Or dusty afternoons helping Ziv around the shop. Going to the markets with Aries at dusk.

 

The war ends for the rest of the galaxy during a night Cinders doesn't remember; a blinding migraine had driven her to bed early the night before. When she woke, the Jedi had fallen. 

 

She repeated the words in her head. They bounced around, meaningless. The Jedi has fallen. What did that even  _ mean?  _ How could an all-mighty race of peace keepers disappear overnight? 

 

Cinders wonders what happened to Volya. Wonders if she and Aftermath are the only remnants of a family long gone. Probably, she decides. And that's only if they were alive.

 

Cinders pulls her morning caf closer as Jysella leaves for work, a glorious smile on her face.  _ The war is over, babes _ is how she woke up Cinders that morning, a beaming smile across her face. 

 

Cinders wished she could share the sentiment.

 

Her untouched caf goes cold by the time the Chancellor announces his new Empire. She watches the celebrations, the confusion in the streets. The solemn faces in the shadows, knowing what they lost. Not believing the lies for a second.

 

The war is over for the galaxy.

 

But for Cinders, she feels it rising in her bones. Her time of peace has passed: a new war is on the horizon, one she has no intention of sitting out on. 

  
  



	3. iii.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Volya Doneeta wakes up from an explosion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter! I'm really proud that I churned this out in a span of 24 hrs. Volya is my absolute child and I love her so much so writing her was a gift. I also came to realization that a lot of my OC's remind me of characters from Legend of Korra.
> 
> Amaranth, Brider, Thof, and Azlin Eko belong to naberiie, stxrduste, and evaceratops respectively. Voy, Lumi, Kes and Jahoun are all mine.
> 
> Kudos to stxrduste for helping me on the Volya & Jahoun scene, and evaceratops for making me aware of how fucking badass the Shadows are.
> 
> (Volya is nowhere near as cool as Jahoun makes out though she is a bumbling idiot lmao)

Volya only recalls what happened before.

 

Eights and Ronhar bickering over something on their last operation. The way their mugs of tea began to rattle until at last they tipped over, sloshing tea everywhere.

 

She was moving before the threat even became visual. Volya launched herself over Ronhar's desk, dragging him to the ground as the windows behind him exploded as a volley of blasts rocketed through the room.

 

Unconsciousness found her quickly, but not quickly enough for her to miss the roofing giving out over Eights. She'd thrown her hand out, tried to will the Force to shove him out of the way —

 

The roofing was faster, and then everything went black.

 

Only it wasn't  _ quite  _ black.

 

Instead of a hazy void, she was standing on the slick stone ledge of a cliff, overlooking a churning blue ocean under a dusty gray sky. Volya's eyes slipped shut as ocean mist sprayed across her cheeks. She welcomed it, welcomed the sight of Radnor.

 

_ “You're hurt.”  _

 

Volya opens her eyes, turns to see a aqua green Nautolan staring at her with a sad, pained smile. Kes Elendra, Jedi Knight, and the person she spent the better half of her childhood working alongside. They shared a Force Bond, though the details on  _ how  _ they shared a bond were fuzzy at best.

 

“ _ I'll live," _ Volya promises. It's not the first time death has tried to take her; she recalls Soleil's blade barely missing her throat while they were both fooled by Drask's trickery; the many narrow escapes during Tython; another memory, drudged up from somewhere in this connection she shared with Kes, of a muddy jungle and collapsing by a river. 

 

The memory ebbs away before she can pursue it further, though.

 

" _ You'd better,"  _ Kes tells her through their connection. His lips do not move, but his voice echoes around her, and his hands move, signing along to what he's saying. " _ I wish for my next trip home to be a joyful one." _

 

★ ★ ★

 

When Volya wakes up, she's in a bed. It's not really a bed, she decides, merely a mattress and not even a comfortable one at that. Between the lump of rocks underneath her, and the way the Force ebbs and flows like the tides of the ocean reaching shore all around her, Volya knows for sure she's back at the Temple. 

 

No one is in the room with her, and she appreciates that as memory washes over her. Volya squeezes her eyes shut, thinking of Eights. His absence in the Force only confirms what she saw: he died, and she couldn't do anything to save him.

 

Tears leak out from beneath her eyelashes, and a strangled cry escapes her lips as she childishly thinks  _ it isn't fair, it isn't  _ **_fair._ ** And then her thoughts turn poisonous: she could've saved Eights. She could've thrown herself at  _ him  _ instead of Ronhar. 

 

Maybe he'd still be alive then.

 

The medical droid finally comes, informs her it's had to shoo away two archivists  _ constantly  _ since she arrived. Tears well in her eyes again at the mention of Brider and Amaranth, but she's quickly distracted by the medical droid's rundown of her injuries. 

 

The shards of glass she'd taken trying to save Ronhar had left her leg muscles damaged, and the burns on her lekku hadn't healed properly either, despite generous use of bacta. And there was the matter of the scarring over her right eye.  

 

By the time the medical droid finishes and rolls away, Volya wants to fall back into the peaceful serenity of sleep, but it eludes her. Volya groans, wishing to bury her face into her pillow. Why hadn't she seen it coming?

 

★ ★ ★

 

She was given braces, to help her with her strength training. They helped her, so long as she didn't push herself too far. The medical droids and even Lumi — Kes' sister and healer slash botanist — inquired if she wanted to carry on with them full time. Eventually, she was given a cane and even a small hoverchair like Master Yoda used to travel through the many levels of the Temple.

 

Lumi helped Volya adjust to the new cane, and comforted her whenever the thought of Eights was too much to bare. The days grew longer as Volya grew restless with nothing to do. She longed to be back in the Archives, or even helping Thof in the ‘creche. Anything but being left alone with her thoughts. 

 

On the days she was too sore to move, she would use the hover chair. If she'd pass younglings, they'd  _ ooh _ at the sight of it, ask her how she moved it around, and if it was comfortable. They sometimes even slipped her stickers to decorate it with, though she had no idea where they'd managed to find them in the first place.

 

But she couldn't deny the sight of her sticker covered hoverchair made her heart swell with pride.

 

★ ★ ★

 

A month later, Volya found herself in the Counsel's Chambers, requesting another transfer: one back to the Archives. The older, wizened Jedi had agreed with concerned gazes. She could feel their thoughts bouncing around her: concerns that she was running away from the tragedy that left Eights dead.

 

Volya left the room, clutching her cane with shaking hands. So what if part of the reason she wanted to be back home was because of what happened with Eights? Or that she missed Brider and Amaranth? It  _ wasn't _ running away.

 

Shortly after her meeting with the Council, Jahoun Valeria requested her presence in the Room of a Thousand Fountains, but it was close to midnight when Jahoun finally arrived. 

 

Volya was running her fingers through the well of water, and nearly fell backwards when Jahoun spoke in front of her, having made no noise when she entered. 

 

"My sources on the Council say you've requested a transfer back to the Archives." Jahoun says casually. She wears a half-helmet covering her eye sockets, and her garb resembles more of a Temple Guard's than a Healer. 

 

"Yes, I have." Volya replies curtly, flinging water off her fingers. She looks up at her grandmaster with a jutted chin. "What about it?"

 

"I asked them to halt the transfer," Jahoun informs her. Before Volya can even choke out a surprised gasp, Jahoun continues, "You're not a dusty nerd, Doneeta, and it's high time to stop pretending you are one."

 

Volya is on her feet in a second. Jahoun towers over her by a foot at least, but the glower Volya has seems to fill the room. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

 

"I have been observing you since you were a youngling. For all the world you may act as though you are simply a bumbling idiot with an affection for books and a penchant for getting lost, I've seen your true potential." 

 

"Oh really? Says the woman who didn't even want me to be Soleil's apprentice to begin with, who argued against my role as diplomat. For all your talk of my potential, you've always been blind to it." Volya sneers. 

 

If Jahoun is surprised that Volya knows about both, she doesn't show it. Instead, in an even voice she replies: "You were an empathic child with no Force Shielding. You would have been a liability within the Shadow community, and an easy target for Sith spirits. If I'd have my way, Soleil would have trained Knight Eko instead." 

 

Jahoun turns away, stepping towards a large oval window that looks out at the Coruscanti nightlife. "When General Misi put his word in for your transfer for diplomat, I was against it because of what happened on Tython — you had more strength than I ever gave you credit for. I wanted you to join the Shadows, then, and you only continued to prove yourself on following missions."

 

Volya barks a laugh, "How'd you figure? I didn't know what the hell I was doing on  _ any  _ mission. I was constantly looking to others."

 

"But you  _ could  _ sense them. The ability I considered a liability became your strength. You could connect to the energies and find the  _ truth _ , while remaining aligned with the Light because of the love you feel for your friends."

 

Volya sits back down, "So you want me to be your Twi'lek Sith Detector?"

 

Jahoun considers her for a long moment, then: “You survived a great deal of encounters with the dark side than you can even recall. I want you to serve as a liaison between the Archives and the Shadows."

 

"What does that even  _ mean _ ?" Volya asks, folding her arms while simultaneously resting them on her cane.

 

"It means that the Shadows relationship with the Archives is... _ delicate.  _ While history can and  _ should  _ be recorded, there are pieces of it that — if fallen into the wrong hands — could present a future threat."

 

Volya stares at her for a long moment and then laughs. "You want me to play devil's advocate and deal breaker over which parts of Sith history should be recorded and which should be kept secret?"

 

"More or less, yes."

 

"You're literally asking me to be a diplomat. You didn't want me to be a diplomat, but you're asking me to be one now." Volya shakes her head. "You're something else, Master."

 

"Do you not accept? I thought you would leap at the chance, after all isn't that what you've done since you were Knighted? Aren't you the only other sentinel in your group? You know how dangerous the Sith are, you have a level head, and you know how to lead."

 

Volya purses her lips, watches Jahoun's impassive face.

 

Finally: "I accept."

 

★ ★ ★

 

The night is cold as she curls up in a seat on  the train she now calls home. Tobe beeps and whines, the mouse droid doing laps around her feet.

 

Everyone is gone.

 

She lost Brider in the chaos, and she's too afraid to seek her out in the Force, afraid of what she might not find. 

 

Volya pulls her scratchy blanket closer to her chin, leaving her feet uncovered. So many lives lost. Rescue, Impulse, so many Jedi. She wonders if she'd be dead now, too, if not for the explosion that took Eights. Would Coral Squad have gunned her down with her back turned like so many others?

 

Sleep finds her eventually, but it is not an easy rest.

 

★ ★ ★

 

Her eyes are closed, and the air is filled with birdsong and the warmth of the sun on her back. The Massassi trees fill the air with their familiar musky but fruity scent, and the ground smells deeply of petrichor from last night's rain.

 

Life surrounds her, the Force ebbing and flowing freely,  _ singing  _ with light and freedom. Volya Doneeta opens her eyes, and smiles down at the group of apprentices training in front of her.

 

It's been a long, long time since the Archives. Two bloody wars had come and passed in the time since, and now there was peace. Or the closest thing to peace anyone could have, as a Jedi.

 

She kindly corrected the younglings lightsaber forms, basking in the feeling of being in the here and now. She could sense Master Skywalker, envisioned him watching from the edge of his Temple, eyes shining with pride and a cup of cocoa in his hand. It wasn't a foreign sight here on Yavin IV. 

 

Volya looked up toward the treeline, and for a moment she could see everyone she'd lost over the years: friends and family alike. She carried them all now inside her, did her best to honor each every day. 

 

The younglings each looked up at her as the class finished, and Volya looked down at them with a proud smile. "Excellent work, lil ones. Remember: the Force will be with you, always."


End file.
